


Promised

by Maplesyrup



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Blood Drinking, English Countryside, F/M, Georgian Period, Mildly Dubious Consent, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rather Large Estate, Rumbelle - Freeform, Vampire Bites, Vampires, Vampiric Hypnotism, Virginity, Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-01-20 16:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplesyrup/pseuds/Maplesyrup
Summary: "I did not jest when I said I grow tired of your games, Everard.” She tilted her head to the side, exposing the pale column of her throat. He sucked in a breath on a hiss.“If you desire to kill me, then just do it.”She met his eyes with a defiant glare.“Vampire .”
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 123
Kudos: 164





	1. Georgian England, Buckinghamshire

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful Mareyshelley and Nerdrumple for being incredible friends and wonderful betas. How I got so lucky to have you both in my life I'll never know. I love you!
> 
> (make sure to check the tags, folks)

She tore through the dark forest as fast as her legs would carry her. Branches scraped against her tender skin and left lines of blood in their wake. A storm raged above the trees, thunder and lightning chasing her as surely as the carriage that rolled along the closest road. She knew whoever was inside that carriage hoped for an impassable section of woods to stop her and allow her to be caught and dragged back.

Sheer terror of what awaited Belle should she be captured pushed past the fear of whatever awaited her in the unknown woods and kept her moving. Clad only in a thin nightgown, plastered to her skin from the storm, she darted around massive trees and shoved through low bushes. Her dark hair streamed in wet, clinging tendrils across her face and her blood threatened to freeze in the cold. 

A felled branch caught her and she tripped, landing hard on the forest floor. A cry of pain tore from her throat but the crack of a whip and the scream of horses kept her from inspecting whatever injuries she had sustained in the fall. She shoved herself upwards, sharp pain lancing from her ankle up through her leg. She ignored it as much as she was able and forced herself to keep moving.

Despair joined the terror as the woods grew ever thicker. Tears blended with the rain on her face as she started to give in, the pain in her ankle nearly overwhelming her movement. She closed her eyes, slumping against the closest tree, the moss-covered bark an insufficient cushion for her misery. She sobbed, the pounding torrent drowning out the sound as she cried herself hoarse. 

A numbness began to crawl up her limbs, inviting her to let go and surrender to oblivion. Her eyelids fluttered and she felt her body slide against the bark, descending slowly to the ground and leaning against the tree. The rain almost felt warm and a small smile curved her mouth. Dying in a storm was awful, but still better than what they had planned for her future. She had chosen her fate. She would win.

A low, snarling growl startled her out of her death-reverie. She turned towards the sound, her movements sluggish despite the stab of alarm her brain was sending through her body.

Glowing eyes were trained on her, three sets in total, and she watched the gleam of a lightning flash bounce off long fangs set in powerful jaws, teeth bared to her in threat. Her heartbeat reversed its slow descent, pumping her limbs back into wakefulness, a sudden rush of heat to her extremities like pins and needles in her veins. She scooted backward clumsily, the beasts tracking her movements and taking slow, measured steps towards her. She scrambled to standing, eyeing them as they advanced and a surge of adrenaline made her turn and dart away from them as fast as she could.

Growls and the sound of snapping jaws followed her, the beasts catching at the end of her nightgown where it trailed behind her, tearing the fabric like wet paper, and she screamed as she ran. Another burst of light across the sky illuminated a thinner section of woods, the land beyond seemingly bare of trees and she put every ounce of will she had left into reaching it.

The growls increased in volume the closer she came to the edge of the forest, until, with a final scream of terror, she burst out of the woods and onto the start of a wide lawn.

The growls stopped as quickly as they had started and she glanced over her shoulder as she ran across the flat plane. Three pairs of glowing eyes stared at her from the edge of the woods she had just left, the beasts stock still even as their eyes remained trained on her.

She slowed, coming to a wary stop as she watched them in return. Her chest heaved and the pain in her ankle came rushing back as the adrenaline in her blood ebbed. She yelped, dropping to the ground and landing with a wet squish in the muddy grass. She yanked at the torn edge of her nightgown, trying to see what damage had been done to her in her previous fall, but it was too dark to make out anything but dark slashes where branches had cut her skin. She breathed deep and slow as her body began to register its injuries, refusing to let the pain overwhelm her.

She had to find shelter of some sort. Even a shed would do for the night. She would limp to the nearest thing she could find and figure out what to do on the morrow. 

She scanned the dark around her, hoping against hope that something would be nearby and serviceable.

To her shock, a large mansion pressed against the stormy sky some fifty yards behind where she sat. Several windows were lit with a warm glow. She frowned. Had it been there when she emerged from the forest? Shaking her head, she got up as carefully as she could, taking pains to avoid more damage to her ankle. Of course the house had been there. She’d merely been too terrified to take notice.

The warmth in the windows beckoned her and she limped across the grass as fast as she was able, a stir of hope in her chest. She nearly smiled in relief even as the rain continued to pour. There had to be people here that would help her, shelter her for a night at least. She would be safe and warm and able to think about what to do and where to go next.

She made it up to the overwhelming front doors by the grace of whatever Saint had listened to her prayers. The doors were massive. Intricately carved oak and bearing twin grinning gargoyle heads of iron, each with a large iron ring held in its jaws. She reached out and grasped one of the rings in trembling, weak fingers, lifting it and letting it fall. It was heavy but she managed it twice, then dropped her hands to fist against her chest. The rain was letting up but an awful, freezing cold had begun to settle, bringing with it a fog that crept across the ground.

She shivered for what felt like an eternity before one of the great doors opened, letting out a spill of light and warmth across her battered form. She looked up, prepared to ask the butler if the mistress of the house was in but stopped at the sight that met her.

A man stood in the large doorway, average of height but pale skinned with an imposing air. Shrewd, aloof amber eyes looked down a long, aristocratic nose at her while a thin mouth pursed in a slight moue of distaste. Silver-grey hair brushed the stiff, high collar of a dark evening coat, the formal attire suggesting she had interrupted a soiree of some sort. Blood rushed to her cheeks and she knew she must look a fright, all wet and bedraggled on his doorstep.

“I-I’m sorry to disturb your evening, sir,” she said haltingly, her teeth chattering around the words, “but I hoped to beg shelter for the night.”

He didn’t answer, merely cast his gaze heavenward towards the rain and then back to her. His eyes ran down her form and she bunched her fists tighter into the sodden fabric around her breasts, trying in vain to preserve some scrap of modesty. Every lecture her governess had ever given her on men and their singularly-positioned minds came back in an unhelpful rush but what choice did she have? It was either take her chances with him or die of exposure—or worse—in the forest. 

She watched his nostrils flare on a deep breath, his eyes fluttering for a moment before his face changed, settling into a warmer expression, a near-smile on his lips.

“Of course. You must be freezing. Come in and warm yourself.”

His voice was a low, sensual rasp that sent an odd sensation skittering down her spine. She stared as he moved back, gesturing for her to enter.

She closed her eyes in relief, starting forward. The bones in her injured ankle collapsed under her weight and she screamed as it twisted further. The resurgence of pain drained the last of her reserves, her vision swimming and blurring before everything went dark.

* * *

Consciousness returned slowly, a surfeit of near-stifling warmth drawing her out from the depths of her sleeping mind. She opened her eyes, the flickering orange light of a fire coming into focus inside a large stone hearth. She stared at the flames for a few moments as the last bits of memory came back.

Once fully in charge of her wits, she glanced around, realizing she was prone on a luxurious sofa with a thick, soft blanket in dove grey tucked around her. She was in a high-ceilinged room with walls done in what appeared to be rose-washed silk, with more furniture dotted here and there, as if meant for a gathering of friends to arrange themselves comfortably. She turned her head, spotting the same man from the doorway—she supposed he was the owner of the rather large estate—seated in an overstuffed antique armchair several feet away, a book propped in one hand with a lit candelabra on a table next to him.

She stared at his profile, her attention drawn to the curiously pale skin that seemed to reflect the firelight as it played across his features. He was so still, as if hewn from marble instead of mortal flesh. The only indication he was a living creature was the flickering of his eyes as he read. 

He turned his head slightly as he thumbed a page, making her jump. His eyes flicked to her, catching her staring. For an instant, a predatory gleam shone in them, like a cat observing a mouse, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. He closed the book, the muted thump echoing in the space, and set it down on the table next to him. A not-quite-smile played about his mouth as he watched her.

“Awake, then?”

She nodded slightly, attempting to sit up, but the movement jarred her ankle and a stab of pain made her cry out. Somehow, he was at the sofa before she had time to register that he moved, the haze of pain dulling her focus.

Cold hands wrapped around the swollen flesh, fingers palpating the bones and she whimpered. Her eyes teared and she let out a sharp hiss as he found the worst of the injury. She tried to pull out of his grip but it was like iron. Her struggle brought his gaze to her face and he shook his head slowly, shushing her gently. 

As she stared into the gleaming amber depths of his eyes, the edges of her world grew hazy. She became aware that he was speaking to her. His voice was low and soothing, dark as the night around them.

“Hush, little one.” His hand smoothed across her skin. “Be still.”

Her body relaxed, her mind sinking into the same haze as her vision. She leaned against the back of the sofa, blinking sleepily as she watched him.

“Tell me, how did you injure yourself?” He folded up the hem of her nightdress, stopping at her knees. Some far off instinct wondered at the propriety of it but was quickly submerged in the warm tide on which her mind floated.

“I fell in the woods,” she replied dully, her tongue sluggish in her mouth. Oh, why couldn’t she just relax and drift off? Why answer questions?

He tsked sympathetically and she felt a sudden small sting on her ankle. She made a noise of distress and he shushed her once more, his head bowed over her feet in his lap. 

She frowned. When had he sat on the sofa? A bloom of freezing cold spread through her foot all the way to her toes and she gasped. The shock faded as quickly as it had come and took the worst of her pain with it. She blinked, trying to keep up but everything was growing foggier by the moment.

“There, now.” The soothing rumble of his voice was back and it drew her attention like a moth to a flame. “Something to help you heal.”

She tried to smile her gratitude, but her face wouldn’t cooperate. He seemed to understand, a corner of his mouth quirking upward as he gazed at her.

“Tell me,” he near-whispered, “would you like your other wounds tended?”

She nodded. “Yes, please.”

His smile widened.

“Such pretty manners.” She felt a little bloom of pride in her chest at having pleased him and managed to smile in return. “Lay back, little one.”

Her body obeyed, sinking down to the soft cushions and pillow, the blanket sliding to the floor as she moved. He adjusted his body, settling himself between her legs. He grasped her injured ankle gently, bringing it to rest on his shoulder, all the while keeping his eyes on hers.

Her entire world coalesced to that glowing gaze, so like the wolves she had seen in the forest with their reflective irises catching and throwing the light. He turned his head, breaking their eye contact but the spell remained, and she watched as he lowered his mouth to one of the wounds she had sustained in the forest. She gasped as she felt cold lips latch on to her skin, then a gentle pull against her flesh as he sucked at the small cut. 

His slick tongue laved away the blood that had welled in the wound and he moaned, the sound reverberating through her, making her want to answer, to call out for something dark and heady and tantalizingly out of reach. Once the first was cleaned, he slid across to the next cut, this one deeper than the last, and latched on. The pull of his mouth was harder this time, his movements against her skin wetter.

She was panting as he finished bathing the largest wound with a shallow twist of his lips. He ducked his head to the back of her knee, sliding his tongue up along the back of her calf, catching each remaining nick as he traversed upwards and ending with a nip at her heel that made her whimper. He lowered her leg, shooting her a heavy, heated glance before he pulled the other to his shoulder and repeated the process for the wounds he found dotted along her second calf.

She writhed as he mouthed her injured flesh, his moans increasing in frequency and making her moan in return. A strange heat pooled between her legs even as his skin was cold enough to draw goosebumps along hers. Releasing a large scratch at her knee with a wet slurp, he lowered her second leg down and caught her gaze once more.

He licked his lips, the flesh red and plump and nearly clashing with the rest of his pale face. He crawled slowly over her like an apex predator, his shoulders rolling sinuously as he moved until he was hovering above her, nostrils flaring as he breathed her in. He kept himself raised but lowered his head, his long nose nudging her chin upwards. She didn’t have the strength or desire to resist.

He tsked in sympathy as he nuzzled her throat gently.

“Poor thing,” he whispered, his breath cool against her. “A miracle you didn’t perish. This one is quite deep.”

She struggled to ask what he meant but before she could form the words, his mouth sealed onto her neck. She gasped and it turned into a moan as his body lowered to hers. Her hands came up, grasping at him instinctively. He sucked hard at the wound, hard enough to hurt but it brought a wicked pleasure with it. The two mingled until she couldn’t discern one from the other. All she knew was the sweetest agony as his mouth moved against her.

He suckled at her for what felt like hours, yet when he began to withdraw, she wailed weakly, trying to draw him back down to her. He hushed her, smoothing cold fingers across her fevered cheek.

“Quiet now, little one. You need rest.”

She watched him, barely conscious as he lifted himself off her then moved to lift her into his arms. She clung to him with the little strength she had left, her eyes drifting closed as he walked.

* * *

Everard closed the chamber door, the latch clicking softly. He turned, heading towards his preferred wing of the vast estate. Isabelle was settled for the remainder of the night, covers drawn up to her chin, and the suggestion of forgetfulness implanted in her subconscious. Her mind would take care of the rest.

He licked the taste of her from the corner of his mouth, relishing the unsoiled tang of her blood. So, she was for certain an innocent, in all ways. As he’d been promised. 

_ Delightful_.

An evil smile spread across his mouth as he traversed the long hallway, his mind filled with possibilities.

_ Perfectly delightful_.


	2. The Next Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She moved forward, eager to touch the blooms and see if they were as soft as they looked. Catching one in her palm, she bent and pressed her nose into the center of the unfurled petals. Her hand slipped down to grip the stem, a thorn catching her finger with a painful sting. She hissed, yanking her hand away from the flower. A drop of blood welled on the tip of her middle finger, a garnet sparkling in the sun._
> 
> _“Beautiful, are they not?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Mareyshelley, a wonderful friend and incredible beta.

Unfamiliar softness cradled Belle as she awoke. For a moment she burrowed, luxuriating, before her mind regained full consciousness and she began to recall the events that led her to a bed that was not her own. There was a twinge of pain in her back, a result of the mad dash from her would-be captors the previous night. She groaned and shifted as more memories flooded back in. 

Rain so cold it stung her skin, scratches and slices across every bit of exposed flesh. She would never forget that storm, how she had nearly let herself succumb to oblivion. Nor would she forget the wolves with their snarls and glowing eyes that terrified her into running just a bit more, to the doorstep of a taciturn, aristocratic man. In a strange way, she owed the wolves thanks for her life.

Then there was her ankle. She gingerly rolled the joint, bracing for the pain, but none came. Only a slight ache, no worse than the rest of her body. She frowned. The injury had seemed much worse, bad enough to cause her to faint on the man’s doorstep, but perhaps it had merely been exhaustion and fear that magnified everything.

At the recollection of her fainting spell, she blushed. What the man must think of her, showing up in the middle of a dismal night begging shelter like a waif. He’d gone to the trouble of seeing she was put in a proper bedchamber and she really ought to thank him.

She pushed herself to sitting, grunting at the discomfort in her muscles. Shoving her mass of tangled curls out of her face, she took stock of her nightgown, blanching to see the fabric stained and torn in several places, revealing bits of pale skin. She grasped at the fabric, a panicked gasp leaving her and her eyes going wide. Oh, the man must think her the drowsiest of fools, or perhaps worse.

She sighed in pained embarrassment, casting her gaze about the room, noting elegant, light furniture here and there and a few tall windows. Midday sun shone through the panes of glass, pretty blue curtains tied off to one side. She left the bed, approaching one window and peering out across a long expanse of beautifully manicured garden. Rose bushes dotted the property, all in the same shade of deep red.

The sound of a door opening behind her startled Belle, and she yelped, whipping towards the door. A maid met her with a wide-eyed, startled look. Belle clutched her hands to her chest, trying to hide the worst of the tears in her nightgown, a fresh blush staining her cheeks.

The maid composed herself quickly, dropping a curtsy, fabric slung over one arm.

“Good morning, miss. If you please, the Master bid me bring you this.”

She held out the arm with the fabric, and Belle realized it was a gown. She frowned.

“Does this belong to your mistress?”

The maid blinked, then answered, “No, miss. That is, there is no mistress. Just the master.”

Belle’s confusion deepened. No mistress, yet there was women’s clothing about? Perhaps he had asked one of the servants for their own or even a sister’s dress? As the maid handed her the clothing, Belle realized it couldn’t have belonged to a servant, the fabric was too fine, too white. The maid ushered her to a dressing table near the bed and Belle sat, bewildered, watching mutely as the maid shook out the lovely country walking dress and sash and laid out undergarments to go along with them. A pair of shoes completed the ensemble and Belle could only stare, wary of the generosity being shown to her.

“The Master is quite, ah, busy, miss, but begs that you take leave to entertain yourself until his business is concluded for the day.”

Belle blinked, then shook her head.

“I don’t understand—”

The maid cut her off with a curtsy. “Beg pardon, miss, but there’s work to be done in a house this size,” she said quickly and was gone in a flash of grey skirts, leaving Belle to stare at the back of the door like a nitwit.

* * *

Belle slowly opened the door to the bedchamber and peeked into the hallway. There was a long expanse in either direction but a large staircase was close to her room. She slipped out, padding quietly along deep blue carpeting and making her way down the stairs, ever-mindful of her healing injury despite that it curiously gave her no great pain when walking.

She reached a marble foyer and looked about. Off to her left was a rosy-hued parlor that seemed vaguely familiar but the rest of the space was new to her, save for the large front doors. They were as foreboding from within as without, and it made her shiver. 

Moving away from the doors, Belle scanned around her for another way to the garden. She saw a second set of doors far at the back of the foyer, greenery visible through the glass. Belle hurried to the doors, emerging through them into a garden full of blooming roses and fresh air. Trees were dotted here and there, casting their shade along an artfully bricked walking path weaving around geometric hedges.

She had a moment’s worry over lacking a parasol, but the sun felt too good on her face and the thought soon melted away. She traversed the path, running her fingers along the glossy leaves of hedges and velvet petals of the blood-red flowers until she came to a section flanked by the tall archway of a carved hedge. Peering beyond the opening, she saw dappled sunlight filter through the path under a ceiling of leaves. She entered at once, wildly curious.

The path darkened the further she went, the overhead canopy thickening until the light was all but choked out, making everything difficult to see. A twinge of worry crept up her spine, but she brushed it away and kept a hand on the hedge at her side to maintain equilibrium. The darkness grew, encompassing all around her and her fear grew until she was panting from it, on the verge of panic. 

The path suddenly ended at the entrance of a small, artfully-crafted chamber, nearly as dark as the rest of the path. A shaft of sunlight pierced through a hole in the leafy ceiling, saving the space from complete gloom and illuminating a glorious rose bush towards the back. Pristine white petals glowed in the life-giving rays, the heat from the sun making them release their sweet fragrance and Belle breathed deeply, in pleasure and relief.

She moved forward, eager to touch the blooms and see if they were as soft as they looked. Catching one in her palm, she bent and pressed her nose into the center of the unfurled petals. Her hand slipped down to grip the stem, a thorn catching her finger with a painful sting. She hissed, yanking her hand away from the flower. A drop of blood welled on the tip of her middle finger, a garnet sparkling in the sun.

“Beautiful, are they not?”

Belle whipped around in fright at the words, her heart immediately springing into a gallop. The same man from the previous night stood there, ensconced in cool darkness as she stood bathed in sunlight. His eyes seemed to give off a glow of their own, but it had to be a trick of the light around her.

Her cheeks heated, embarrassment at her skittishness making her drop her gaze back to her wounded finger.

“You’re hurt.”

She looked back up to see him suddenly close and she narrowly avoided the instinct to recoil. He reached into the beams of light around her, grasping her hand in his much larger one. His touch was so cool as to be on the verge of cold and she wondered at it, but he was gentle with her, cradling her palm as if she were made of glass.

He tsked, frowning, and brought up his other hand to trace a faint line across her palm. A tingle ran up her arm at the contact.

“Beauty can have its dangers, little one.”

She raised her eyes to his face in question but couldn’t speak. She watched him turn her hand over and bring her finger to his mouth. He slipped it past his lips, wrapping them around her finger and applying gentle suction, his tongue laving away the blood. He kept his eyes on her the entire time, his tongue swirling, flirting with the tiny nick, cleansing and soothing the sting.

A memory came floating back to the surface of her mind, of a warm fire and a firm mouth pressed against her limbs, sliding up to her neck and latching on. The images were hazy, cloaked in an otherworldly fog and she blushed to realize she must have dreamt of him the previous night. Her eyes widened before she looked away from him, mortified that he might somehow see what was in her mind.

He surprised her then, suddenly dropping her hand and taking a few steps back into the shadows.

“Forgive me.”

She glanced up and saw him turn away from her, hanging his head as if in shame. She was puzzled and gave voice to her confusion.

“Sir, for what?”

He grimaced, his eyes closing with a shake of his head.

“We aren’t even properly introduced. What you must think of me.” 

The tortured rasp of his voice tugged at her heart. He darted a worried glance at her, as if he dared not fully look. She sent him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“It’s alright,” she said. “You needn’t worry.”

He shook his head again, with more fervor.

“You are wounded, needing sanctuary,” he hissed. His mouth twisted, bitter in self-loathing. “And I accost you.” 

She was drawn to him in sympathy, even as her body still thrummed with a different emotion, elicited by the memory of her finger in his mouth. She stepped out of the sun, the coolness of the shadows wrapping around her as she moved. She stopped a few feet from him and dropped into a curtsy.

“Isabelle French.” She stood, giving him a hopeful smile.

He stared at her for a moment before his posture turned formal and he bowed, his movements elegant and practiced, if a bit somber. She bit her lip.

“Everard Gold, master of Fuilteach Manor, and your servant.”

“Well, there now. No longer strangers, are we?”

His lips curved with wry humor as he straightened, some of the bitterness leaving his gaze.

“You are clever.” He fidgeted, his smile dropping and the worry returning to his face. “I...still regret what transpired.”

Such kindness, she thought. It wasn’t his fault her mind was improperly imagining things it shouldn’t be. In truth, what sort of a woman _ was _ she to imagine such things? She waved away his words.

“No, sir. Please, do not trouble yourself. I was…overheated from the concentrated rays,” she gestured behind her, “and the distraction of my foolishness. All roses have thorns.” She lifted her hand to check the wound, surprised when she found nothing but a tiny, silvery scar where the blood had welled moments before. 

“Something amiss?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it, uncertain of what to say. She settled for a shake of her head, pasting a bright smile on her face as she curled her fingers inward.

“Nothing.”

“Is your ankle giving you pain?” He took a measured step closer, extending his hand to her, concern etched in his brow. “Would you allow me the honor of escorting you back?”

Belle paused, querying the joint and finding only the smallest of twinges. Nothing another day wouldn’t cure and certainly nothing that warranted leaning on him in escort. And yet, he had been so courteous to her, a consummate gentleman. Offering shelter without question or payment, sending a servant to see to her needs. 

If she were honest with herself, he fascinated her. His presence was heady, almost illicit, affecting her as if she were drunk on stolen wine, and his pale and peculiar kind of handsome was far more alluring than it should be.

Chiding herself internally for her thoughts and promising Heaven an extra prayer that night to make amends, she took his offer of support with a smile of gratitude and let him lead the way back through the narrow, foliated passage.

As they walked, Belle couldn’t see the swipe of his tongue as it lingered against sharp canines in blatant appetite, couldn’t hear the slight hissed intake of his breath as the scent of her surrounded him, making his mouth water. 

She held tight to danger, called it ‘friend’, and let it gently lead her back to her fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see this _liaison dangereuse_ continue, please let me know :)


	3. The Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle discovers an estate secret and pushes the limits of her host's self-control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to Mareyshelley, an amazing friend and wonderful beta. <3

Mr. Gold escorted her back to the house but departed soon after they arrived in the foyer. A mere press of her hand and a gentle smile was all he left behind. A maid soon took his place, different than the one who had delivered her gown, and offered to serve Belle the midday meal.

She had nodded without speaking, dutifully following the young girl as she began walking, puzzling over Mr. Gold’s disappearance all the while.

“The Master is very busy these days.”

Belle’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting the calm gaze of the maid. 

“Oh, that’s—I mean, of course.” She nodded. “Of course.” 

The young woman smiled as she gestured for Belle to precede her into a large dining room, a long table spanning one end to the other. A beautiful service for one sat at the far end, and Belle made her way there. No footman appeared to pull out her chair so she did it herself, the lush velvet cushion she sat on a luxury far too great for mere luncheon.

The maid disappeared as soon as Belle was sat, leaving her to look around at the newest room to make her acquaintance. A grand fireplace was set in the wall a few paces beyond the head of the table, gleaming, sculpted marble figures roaming across the face. They drew Belle from her chair and as she moved closer, she began to make out the scene carved in the stone.

A man and woman danced, twirling up one leg of the hearth and Belle smiled, reaching out to touch them, running her fingers along each etched revolution. The images morphed slowly, and clothes appeared to be shed with each new section she slid her fingers across. Her cheeks heated as the scene grew shockingly intimate, the figures falling horizontally and entwining passionately, nude and rolling from section to section.

Belle’s eyes fell to the final scene at the bottom of the second leg, her heartbeat racing and heat pooling between her thighs. The man had changed, still nestled between the woman’s thighs, but his face had grown fierce, almost enraged. A scowl cut across his face and two long fangs protruded from his open mouth. He bent over the woman menacingly as she had her eyes closed in what could have been agony or ecstasy. Belle couldn’t tell.

“Miss?”

She was up like a shot, whipping around to face the maid, who’d returned with a rolling cart bearing a selection of covered dishes.

“Are you well, Miss?”

Belle nodded, turning her flaming face away as she hurried back to her seat.

* * *

She rested after her meal, a slight fatigue finding her after eating, and rose to see the sun dipping below the horizon. Splashing water on her face and tidying her skirts, she made her way back downstairs in search of something to entertain herself while she waited for her host to reappear from wherever he’d gone.

Belle hadn’t been told not to explore, so she moved here and there, poking her head into rooms that struck her fancy, until she came upon a glorious revelation.

Mr. Gold owned a library.

She slipped inside with an excited gasp. The room was warm and welcoming, a fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth and sconces lit along the walls. In the expanse of the otherwise grand estate, the low lighting gave the space a cozy, intimate feel and she nearly squealed with excitement. It felt like a haven, a place of true sanctuary with knowledge just waiting to be uncovered.

She hurried to the shelves that flanked the hearth, running her hands along a row and peering at the titles. There were books on what seemed to be every topic on the Lord’s green earth. She ached to open them all and absorb their secrets but a small blue book with a gilded spine snagged her attention. It begged to be pulled from the shelf and opened. So she acquiesced, leaning against the shelf as she flipped through the first few pages.

It was a book of fairy stories from all corners of the globe. She released an enraptured sigh, her eyes widening in excitement as they landed on an intriguing title. She started to read, quickly pulled into the world of the story. Page after page flew by, each twist and turn more delightful than the last.

A quietly cleared throat made her jump, and she nearly dropped the book. She pressed it to her chest protectively, casting her gaze about until she saw Mr. Gold standing by the entrance to the library. She breathed a sigh of relief, feeling utterly foolish for her fright.

He chuckled as if he could read her mind, shutting the door behind him and moving into the room.

“I do seem to frighten you so,” he said, his tone somewhat sad despite the amusement on his face. A curious mix of shadow and light played across his face as he moved. “Have I disturbed your refuge?”

Belle shook her head.

“No,” she let out a nervous laugh, “No, I’m just silly.” She loosened her grip around the book and held it up to him. “As evinced by my chosen reading material. My father would—”

She cut herself off, turning quickly to put the book back where she had found it, suddenly worried.

“No, don’t.” His voice was closer, by her shoulder, and she turned to see him there, his smile dimmed but yet lingering around the corners of his mouth. “You are welcome to keep reading.”

She pulled the book back out hesitantly, turning and clasping it again to her bosom as she faced him fully.

“Thank you,” she murmured, the wood of the shelf digging into her back as she pressed against it. She looked up into his eyes, the amber reflecting flecks of light from the nearby candle flames. “I’ll return it, I promise.”

The smile bloomed again and he shook his head. 

“There’s no hurry.” He looked up and away from her, reaching and plucking a book from a higher shelf. “I came for the same purpose as you.”

He held the book up, offering her the title. _ The Divine Comedy. _

“Oh,” she breathed, raising a hand to glide her fingers across the embossed letters.

“Have you read it?”

She shook her head, feeling plebeian and hating it.

“No.” She sighed through her nose. “I’ve always wanted to.”

“Shall we trade?”

She shook her head again, at sea. Slipping past him, she went to the fire, holding out the hand not holding the book and letting the heat permeate her palm and the thin layers of her gown. Fabric rustled as he moved and she saw him sit out of the corner of her eye. She turned, choosing the long couch opposite the armchair he’d chosen, shooting him a surreptitious glance. He appeared absorbed in the book, his chin propped on a few fingers, one laid across his thin mouth. A small frown notched between his brows. 

Belle dropped her eyes to her own book, rubbing a thumb absently across the blue cover, frustrated at how small she felt. As if she were a child again, desperate to impress a sophisticated guest. She huffed and opened the book with more force than necessary, the spine letting out a small creak in protest. She sat rigidly on the edge of her seat, self-consciousness making her aware of every whisper of fabric as she fidgeted, every angle of her body as her back began to hurt from her stiff posture.

Mr. Gold snapped his book shut and she looked up in surprise. He drummed his fingers on the cover for a moment before setting the book aside and looking at her.

“I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, Miss French. I shall retire now.” He stood, offering her a shallow bow. “Good night.”

She wrestled with herself as he walked towards the door, finally calling out as he was nearly gone.

“No, wait!”

He paused, hand still on the doorknob, and turned back to her. His face was neutral but something in his eyes gave him away.

“I—” Oh, how to explain? How to even begin?

_ I’m a ninny. I’m a runaway. You’re housing a fugitive. _

“Please,” she started again. “Don’t leave. You do not discomfit me, sir.”

He closed the door with a snap and she swallowed against the irritation in the sound. Moving back to his chair, he stood near it, one hand on the back as he gazed at her, his face pale and haughty. Like the night she’d stumbled upon his doorstep.

“Forgive me, Miss French. I have...trouble believing I am not the source of your discomfort.”

She closed her eyes, fighting against an instinct of self-protection and a wave of fear. She owed him an explanation, at the very least, given all he had done for her without being asked.

“No,” she said quietly. “It is I who should beg your forgiveness, sir. I—” She stopped, tears pricking at her eyes and her lower lip trembled. “I—”

“Little one,” he said, his voice warm with sympathy. He moved away from his chair, taking a seat next to her on the couch, a respectful distance between them. “What troubles you? Has it to do with what brought you to my door?”

She took a few breaths, trying to control herself, and nodded. Her gaze stayed fixed on her hands clasped around the open book in her lap.

“I…ran.”

He made a noise of encouragement but didn’t speak. She continued.

“M-my father, he—” She took another deep breath. “He has arranged a marriage for me.” She toyed with the corner of a page, folding and unfolding it as she spoke, letting the tiny crease anchor her to the world. 

“I never want anyone to choose my fate. Only me. But he—he brought men to the house, men who would take me to Bedlam.”

He tsked next to her and she raised scared eyes to his face.

“I’m not mad.” She shook her head. “I merely said no.”

He frowned, concern writ across his face, and slid closer to her. His presence calmed her, cooled her heated panic like a cold cloth on a fever.

“Little one,” he repeated in a murmur. “It’s alright. Please, continue.”

She took a shuddering breath and nodded.

“I ran. I-I waited for the right moment and then I ran, directly to the woods. And the storm,” she felt a tear slide down her cheek, “I was prepared to die rather than let someone else control my life.” She shrugged, sniffing. “Perhaps that _ is _ madness.”

“No,” he said, producing a handkerchief and handing it to her. She accepted with a grateful smile. “It is not madness to desire control over one’s fate.”

She pressed the kerchief to her eyes, then blotted her cheeks.

“Thank you.”

“Miss French,” he said, returning to formality. “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you should wish. You are safe here.”

She suddenly longed to lean against him, to surrender her worries to his strength, despite the impropriety. She was undeniably drawn to him, unable to control it. She looked up, watery eyes meeting clear, concerned ones, and bit her lower lip.

“Mr. Gold—”

“Everard, please.” A sweet smile curved his mouth. “You did say we are friends, did you not?”

That surprised a genuine laugh out of her, if a bit watery.

“That I did.” She smiled in return. “Then, please, call me Belle.”

“Belle,” he repeated. The low rasp of his voice saying her name did strange things to her and she was barely able to contain a wriggle. “It suits you.”

She felt her cheeks flame but couldn’t tear her eyes from his.

“Goodness, little one, how you blush.” He chuckled and she ducked her head in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.”

He tucked a finger under her chin, drawing her gaze back to his smiling eyes.

“It’s enchanting.” His eyes dropped to her mouth and his own lips parted.

She felt herself moving towards him, her eyes closing as she leaned in, preparing to press her mouth to his.

“Miss French. Belle.”

She opened her eyes, confused as he retreated with a shake of his head.

“We mustn’t. Propriety is bent to breaking as it is.”

The sting of rejection burned in her chest and she grew frustrated once more, a desire to lash out and push at him nearly overtaking her. She breathed deeply, calming herself. She was not a madwoman. 

“You are right, of course.” She smoothed a hand down the cover of the little book. “Changing one’s fate seems to be the sole purview of women in stories,” she murmured, the words tasting bitter. 

He sighed. 

“That is unfair, Miss French.”

She looked up at him with a small frown, not bothering to keep the childish pout from her lips. 

“_ Life _ is unfair, Mr. Gold.” If he would return to formality, then so would she. “At least, for women.”

“You cannot understand what you’re asking.”

“To control my fate!” She burst out, her words loud in the intimate space. She stood abruptly, casting the book to take place on the cushion she vacated. She moved to the fire, turning her back on him and staring down into the flames.

“Every other part of nature has its own way.” She wrapped her arms about herself, suddenly chilled despite the blazing heat before her.

“I am sorry, Mr. Gold. I told you I was silly.”

Silence greeted her and she wondered if he had quit the room, left her to her complaining. She wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. She turned around, a little surprised to find him there sitting, but the look on his face immediately stole her attention. 

He was utterly still, his eyes fixed low on her body and his nostrils flaring. She drew her gaze down to see what he stared at and blanched. 

The fire had rendered the light fabric of her gown translucent and the outline of her legs was on prominent display. 

He should have turned his head, should have begged pardon for his offense, like any true gentleman, but he kept staring. A thrilling spike of awareness plunged through her, heat pooling low in her belly. His brow lowered and his pupils dilated. 

She pulled in a shallow breath and his eyes snapped to hers, the rest of him unmoving. He looked…hungry. 

“Go.”

She started at the rasped word, spoken from barely-moved lips, and shook her head.

“I don’t—“

“Slowly. Don’t run. But go.”

She scowled. 

“Do not tell me what to do.”

His mouth twisted and he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

“Just do it.” He spat each word, as if they caused him pain to speak. His hands gripped the cushion he sat on until his knuckles turned white. She swallowed, her brain sluggish. Gone was the gentleman and in his place was something beastly wearing his face. 

It should have terrified her. But it didn’t. 

Belle kept her spot, staring back at him with a dangerous mix of curiosity and recklessness, trying to be as still as he was. His brow darkened further the longer she stood there defying him until he finally broke and stood, all sinuous, predatory grace as he took achingly slow, measured steps towards her. 

Some long-dormant instinct awoke as he drew closer, bringing a sudden realization to light. 

She was being hunted. 

Adrenaline shot through her veins, urging her to get out and find safety, but it warred with the morbid curiosity that would surely be the final mark of her madness. She wanted to know, to understand why she was more excited than frightened, why she wanted to laugh as she ran from him knowing he would damn well catch her.

He advanced. She kept her eyes on his as she slid a step away. He paused, a corner of his mouth twitching and she took another step back. He remained where he was as she took a third step, then a fourth, sliding into the shadows.

Her next few steps back were quick and his attention sharpened once more. 

“You play a dangerous game, little one.”

That dark, deep voice thrilled her, and she nearly moaned at the pulse of desire it drew forth. An indrawn breath hissed between his teeth. 

She looked over her shoulder, judging the distance to the door, then looked back at him. She bit her lip against the unholy excitement coursing through her, then turned and bolted.

He caught her as she was mere inches from escape and she shrieked, his arms about her like iron bands. She panted from excitement and exertion, wriggling ineffectively against him. He spun her and pressed her against the wall, her wrists captured in his hands, held immobile against the wood paneling. 

“I said not to run,” he murmured in her ear, the feel of his breath making her shiver and whimper. “Now look what’s happened.”

“Wh-what,” she swallowed, forcing down the stammer, “what are you going to do to me?”

He lowered his head, brushing the tip of his nose against her jaw and inhaling.

“You wanted to be kissed, did you not?”

He pulled back, looking into her eyes and the edges of her world grew hazy. 

“Tell me, little one, what you truly wish.”

She blinked slowly, an unbidden smile curving her lips.

“You,” she whispered. A flicker of surprise crossed his face and he blinked. The blurred edges of her vision sharpened again, leaving her shocked, yet unashamed at what she confessed. 

“Kiss me,” she begged, uncaring of the plaintive cast to her words. “Please.”

He was hard and strong, pressed fully against her, and she wanted him desperately. To Hell with dignity. 

He smiled evilly before lowering his head, opening his mouth and teasing her with brushes against her parted lips. She strained towards him with a whimper, and he rewarded her, taking full, lush possession of her mouth.

She fought against his grip on her wrists, moaning in want to touch him, feel him under her hands but he held her firm. His tongue slid inside her mouth with slick, luxurious thrusts and she tried to mimic his actions. A sharp tooth nicked her lip and she hissed at the sudden sting, breaking their kiss. She caught the metallic tang of blood, her tongue probing the shallow wound.

A deep growl met her ears and she looked up to see Everard’s eyes wide and unnervingly dilated, his gaze fixed on her mouth. 

Before she could speak, he latched onto her again, pulling at her lip, sucking it inside his mouth and laving his tongue over the nick. He groaned, finally releasing her wrists and wrapping his arms around her tightly. She was overwhelmed by him, at the way he filled her senses, and could only surrender as he ate at her mouth. 

He slowed, releasing her with a wet slurp, his eyes drowsy as he pulled back to gaze at her. She stared, nonplussed, her eyes falling to his lips and she let out a gasp of shock. 

Two elongated canines were set in his mouth, the tips needle-fine and glistening. She watched as they slowly retracted and he closed his jaw, still holding her tightly against him. 

“What _ are _ you?” she whispered, bringing her eyes back up to his. His smile was darkness incarnate, yet his hands caressed her gently through her dress. 

“Did you not stake your claim?”

“I don’t-”

“Yours?”

She shook her head, confused and uncertain, a tingle of fear beginning in her mind. He slid his tongue across his teeth, his canines extending and her eyes widened. She retreated as far as she could, still held within the iron bands of his arms, and stared at the dangerous teeth.

“Have I frightened you again?” His lips twisted wryly, hiding the fangs. “I seem to be quite capable of that.”

“W-why do you have…_ those? _”

A low rumbling growl sounded in his throat and he lowered his head, nuzzling at her once more.

“To eat.”

She had a sinking feeling she knew the answer but asked the question anyway.

“Eat…what?”

He lifted his head, quirking an eyebrow at her as he smirked.

“Oh, God.”

He cocked his head, wrinkling his nose. 

“Rather the other end of that spectrum, my beauty.”

She began struggling in earnest, pushing ineffectively against him, a desperate sob falling from her mouth. Betrayal warred with fear inside her, and she hated herself for wanting him naught but minutes ago.

“Please, _ please _ , let me go. _ Please _ don’t kill me.” She shoved at his shoulders, but may as well have pushed at stone. He shushed her, stemmed her flailing by shifting her in his arms and pressing his face to hers.

“You said I was safe!” she spat. “You’ve taken _ care _ of me!”

“Hush, little one.” He stroked a hand from the back of her head down to her waist, repeating the motion several times. “Hush. I did not lie. You are safe.”

“But you want to-to _ eat _ me.” The ludicrousness of the statement sent her mind reeling, a surreal cast taking over the shadowed atmosphere of the library around them. Her traitorous body still clamored to cling to him, to give in and let him bear all of her weight. She closed herself off to the aching want, shoving it to the back of her mind and locking it away.

“I did not say that.”

“It doesn’t_ matter! _” she growled at him. She began to grow weary from the exertion of trying to get free but pushed her fists against his chest with what remained of her strength. 

“I’ll send you to _ Hell _ before I let you—”

He took possession of her mouth again, stopping her words and struggling abruptly, and her blood sang at the feel of him. The good Lord help her perverse desire for this man. The danger hadn’t dampened her need after all. It reignited like a spark set to kindling.

But she was still angry, at her own foolishness and his false gentility, and she lashed out, tried to bite him in their kiss, managed to nip at his tongue. He yelped and pulled back, breathing heavily.

“You perfect little minx.” He licked his lips. “Oh, you’re glorious, aren’t you?”

He dove back in before she could say anything, pressing her back against the wall and lifting her, anchoring her with his body and tugging her legs around his waist. His strength mesmerized her and she whimpered into his mouth, her arms sliding around his shoulders and her fingers playing in his long hair.

He battled with her and despite the tiredness of her muscles from her earlier struggle, she felt the duel in the kiss and was desperate to win. Win what, she didn’t know, but instinct told her there was _ something _ at stake and she was not keen to fail.

He pulled his mouth from hers, dragging his lips down to her throat where he sucked at her, nipped her tender skin, and she froze in his arms.

“No,” she gasped, shoving at him. “Stop! _ No! _”

He paused for what seemed like an eternity, the only sound her harsh breathing as she waited, tensed to fight, then shut his mouth with an audible click. In the span of a heartbeat, she was set back down, yet still encased in the circle of his arms.

Her mind reeled, refusing to land on one emotion, and she dully registered she was still clinging to him despite the relative safety of the ground. He merely held her as her breathing slowed, the mad gallop of her heart calming and approaching normalcy once more.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, the gentle act incongruent with the predator who had stalked her across the room, captured her and nearly made a meal of her. And yet, he had stopped when she said to. She was yet unharmed in all ways. Perhaps he did not lie when he assured her of safety, but she was wary to trust what seemed to be.

“Do not toy with me.” She wriggled away from the press of his lips, despite the lovely feeling of comfort his cool mouth provided. “I am not a mouse.”

He chuckled into her hair, removing his lips from her forehead.

“That you are not, little one.” He breathed her in, a small moan escaping him.

“W-why,” she stammered, grotesque curiosity bubbling up inside her once more, “why did you stop?”

He sighed.

“Even the devil has his morals,” he murmured, releasing her and stepping back. “Go. Rest. I shall trouble you no longer.”

_ Trouble? _ It was something far closer to _ death _ than _ trouble _ he’d given her, but she took the opportunity to flee regardless, slipping to the door and leaving as quickly as she dared, ever mindful of the fiend that stayed behind.

* * *

Everard waited until he heard the sounds of her chamber door shutting and locking before slamming a closed fist against the wall of the library once, twice, snarling at his own recklessness, at the pure, lusting need to possess her that had torn through his body. He’d nearly ruined everything, prepared as he was to maul her like an untried youth. In the mere space between two of her precious heartbeats, he could have lost what he’d been so diligent, so patient to acquire.

He whipped around and began pacing the floor in front of the hearth with ground-eating, enraged strides, trying to calm the tide inside him. A glance through the window showed the night at its zenith, the sky a wash of inky blue-blackness with a smattering of stars. Nary a cloud to be seen. Moonlight shone on his grounds, tipping the blades of manicured grass in eerie silver. Plenty of light to see by for his sensitive eyes.

He stilled his pacing, smiling darkly as his eyes took on a preternatural glow. If he wasn’t to have the one he craved this night, he would satisfy himself another way. The old way. A small town was naught but a league from his estate, and he hadn’t sampled from them in nearly a generation.

He would hunt there instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am dying to know your thoughts on this chapter!


	4. The Foyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle encounters a true threat to her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everything, Mareyshelley <3

Three days passed without Belle seeing so much as a glimpse of Mr. Gold. Various servants saw to her needs, and she woke each morning with fresh clothing. It unnerved her to think about how and where the clothing came to be for her use, yet she had little choice but to accept. She longed for her own things, especially so the mementos of her mother for the comfort they gave her, but knew sending a servant to fetch them would expose her whereabouts and risk her life.

Belle had established a routine of sorts for herself: dressing and leaving her hair to fall in a curling wave down her back. There was no society to speak of, so what did it matter to leave her hair unbound? Breakfast in the long dining room, a midday walk through the garden, reading in the library or the pretty salon with the watered rose-silk walls, dinner, and retiring for the evening. Fires were always built for her, servants always available, yet she was aware of a creeping listlessness settling into her body. 

She was lonely, and despite the more logical side of her nature that pointed out the foolishness of such desire, she found herself longing for the company of her dangerous host. He’d been true to his word, however, and she couldn’t help but be appreciative, despite her pouting.

What a perverse creature she was.

The shining leaves of the manicured hedgerows slipped through her fingers as she let a hand brush across them while she walked. She had mastered the maze, learned the peculiar turns that would lead her to the bush of sweet white roses at its center. She clutched one such bloom in the same hand that held the little blue book of fairy stories and made her way back to the estate.

The book was finished, a delightful escape from start to end, and she was curious to see what the mind of Dante Alighieri held for her. Pressing the bloom to her nose, she inhaled as she slipped through the terrace doors and began to make her way across the long, marbled expanse of the foyer.

A sudden, loud banging on the front door startled her, and her steps stilled. A maid rushed in after a moment, reaching and pulling open the heavy door. Belle set the book and rose on a nearby side table, frowning in curiosity as the visitor was revealed. 

Midday rays spilled across the floor, the shadow of a man bisecting the rectangle of light. Belle followed the shadow up to its owner and froze.

He was bald, middle of height, his face twisted in what she supposed would be a friendly smile but for the air of malice that seemed to hang on him like a cloak. He gave the maid a nod of his head, opening his mouth ostensibly to speak but stopped, catching sight of Belle. Terror spiked through her and her eyes widened.

It was the man her father had brought to take her to Bedlam. His smile changed, cruelty turning it to a sneer, and he stepped inside, brushing past the startled maid and stalking towards Belle.

She took a step back, heart hammering and hands numb even as they clutched at the folds of her gown.

“Well, well,” the man said with oily satisfaction, “what luck to find you here. And on my first go ‘round, too.”

Gulping, she cast her eyes about for the maid, but she was nowhere to be found. She brought her attention back to the man. He tsked at her.

“Shame on you, lovey. Taking advantage of these good people’s hospitality? Do they know they’ve got a madwoman in their midst?” He grinned, running his tongue across his lips, wetting them obscenely. “Or maybe that’s the kind of thing they like, eh?” He drew closer. “Little bit o’ spice to liven up the boring countryside?”

She mentally calculated the best route to take to escape him, her body tensing for flight. The garden was ill-advised, the stairs too far. Oh, to where could she flee? He rubbed his hands together, casting his lewd gaze up and down her body. 

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said. He moved closer and she kept backing away, soon to run out of foyer. “Plan to take a bit for meself before handing you over.” 

Rage shot through her veins.  _ No _ . No one was taking her anywhere or taking anything from her. She scowled, her fingers curling into claws as she prepared to fight him or die trying if she was caught. He lunged for her and she shrieked, jerking back, but he didn’t make contact. A blur of motion snatched him up and when the blur solidified, she realized it was Mr. Gold. His hand gripped the bald man’s throat, lifting him several inches off the floor as if he weighed nothing.

Gold’s face was contorted in fury, his mouth twisted into a heinous snarl, teeth bared and fangs extended. He gave the bald man a little shake, and the man managed to squeak in fright past the iron grip around his neck.

“You’ll not touch her,” Gold hissed, squeezing harder. The man’s eyes began to bulge and his skin darkened. He scrabbled at the hand around his throat, trying in vain to pry the fingers from around his windpipe. His panicked gaze landed on Belle and his lips shaped words. He begged for mercy, pleaded with his eyes. She ignored it as Gold began to drag the man away. A terrified gurgle erupted from the man’s throat and he flailed, kicking as much as he could to get away.

“Wait.”

Gold paused, turning back to her. His eyes glowed and his mouth still twisted but he seemed to be listening, his entire being suddenly focused on her. She moved towards them, staring the bald man down. He openly wept in apparent relief, lifting a hand to Belle. She didn’t take it.

Instead, she leaned in, until she was close enough to spit on him should she so desire.

“Tell my father,” she said, her voice low, “that I will take my own life before I’ll let anyone lock me away for daring to have independence of mind.”

She knew she had confused him but realization dawned swiftly on his face and he shook his head, scrabbling furiously again at Gold’s hand and making more choked sounds of panicked protest. She ignored him, instead looking to Gold. He arched an eyebrow at her in question.

Belle took a deep breath, held her chin high, and turned her back on the scene. She walked slowly back to the side table, gathering up the book and rose, and moved serenely towards the library, the sound of choking and boots scuffing the floor following her into the room.

* * *

She broke up her own routine that afternoon, refusing a seated meal and instead took a hamper and  _ The Divine Comedy _ outside with her. She sprawled her picnic under a lone apple tree, propping herself against the trunk to eat and read, the early evening light beginning to paint orange and pink across the sky. It was a perfect backdrop to the epic poem and she was soon lost in the imagery of the cantos.

It was thus how he found her. Despite her absorption in the text, a tingle of awareness crept along her skin, the atmosphere around her rippling like small pebbles tossed into a lake. She looked up from the page to see him walking towards her and was somehow unsurprised. In the fading light, she could see a healthy-looking flush in his cheeks, turning him from his usual marble to apparent flesh and bone.

She closed the book, setting it aside and looking up at him. He stopped a respectful distance away, silent for a moment, then spoke first.

“Do you enjoy it?” He nodded to the book and her gaze followed before returning to his.

“Immensely,” she said.

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. 

“I am glad.”

She watched him shift his weight as he stood there under her scrutiny. She was at war with herself; wary yet elated at his presence, grateful for him saving her but worried what she had tacitly agreed to when she turned her back. He stood a few moments longer, then gave her a shallow bow, turning to leave.

“Everard.”

His name on her lips halted his progress. He turned back to her, his face placid. She rose and he hurried to extend a hand to her. She brushed him off, coming to stand before him and scrutinizing his face in the dying light.

Why was he so flushed with color? Did it have something to do with his meals of choice? Did he do something irreparable to the bald man? She closed her mind against the thought. She did not wish to know.

“Thank you,” she murmured, “for saving me.”

He inclined his head.

“Twice now you’ve saved my life.” She sighed. “I owe you a debt I fear I cannot repay.”

He shook his head.

“There is no debt. I promised you safety, and I shall keep that promise.” 

“But why?” She tilted her head, gazing at him with open curiosity. “Why be so solicitous of a stranger’s welfare?”

He merely gazed back at her, his eyes dark as night enveloped them. She shivered, but whether out of fear or a chill, she wasn’t certain.

He cast off his coat without comment and placed it around her shoulders. The warmth of it shocked her. 

“Shall we continue this inside, perhaps by the fire?”

She nodded, bending to collect the remains of her picnic and let him precede her into the house.

* * *

He gently took the coat back from her when they were back inside. She moved towards what she’d begun to think of as the rose salon and he followed. She tried to swallow her discomfiture at him following close behind her.

Moving to the fireplace, she warmed her hands for a moment before memories came back from the last time they were near a fire together. She moved away quickly, folding her arms across her chest and watching him from the corner of her eye. He moved to a small table that held several bottles of liquor and poured a small measure of whisky. He raised the glass in offer to her but she shook her head. He nodded, keeping the glass for himself.

She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and facing him fully.

“I have questions,” she stated boldly. He took a small sip of his drink, chuckling.

“Of that, I have no doubt.” He tossed back the rest of the alcohol and refilled the glass, then moved to an armchair and sat gracefully. He gazed up at her.

“Ask away, little one.”

She frowned.

“Why do you call me that?”

A raised eyebrow.

“It…comes naturally.” He swirled the drink. “I shall cease if it bothers you.”

She grunted at that, giving him no other response as she collected enough bravery to ask what was truly on her mind. She took another deep breath and a few steps closer to him.

“Can you prove to me that I’m truly safe with you, as you claim?”

He paused in the act of drinking, staring up at her, surprise in his eyes. He lowered the glass, swallowing and setting it down on the side table next to the armchair. His gaze never left hers.

“How do you propose I do that?”

She cast her mind about, searching her memories for inspiration until an idea formed. She took another step closer to him, drawing back her sleeve and holding out her wrist. He stilled in his seat.

“What are you—” 

“Prove it,” she interrupted, nodding at her wrist. “Do…whatever it is that you do, on me.”

His nostrils flared, his eyes dilating, but he gave her an infinitesimal shake of his head.

“You know not what you ask.”

She ground her teeth together, frustrated.

“Please stop saying that to me.” She shook her wrist in front of his face. “Go on.”

Everard reached up, grasping her offered limb gently. He rose, keeping hold as he filled the space before her.

“I could lose control, you know,” he murmured, his thumb smoothing across her pulse point. “I could take too much, drain you, and you would die.”

Belle stared up at him, defiance flaring inside her.

“Then so be it. I grow weary of fleeing fear. If I am truly safe, you can…taste me however you do and all shall be well. If I die, then at least it was my choosing that led there, and not someone else deciding for me.”

He stared at her, his gaze searching before letting out a shallow sigh. He raised her wrist to his nose, running the tip across her skin and inhaling. Her heart began a fierce gallop.

“You smell heavenly,” he whispered, eyes closing. “Like tea, and fresh parchment.” He inhaled deeper. “And roses.”

She bit her lip, his sensual murmuring sending jolts of desire down between her legs. She tried to fight the feeling, but it was useless.

“I will be gentle, little one,” he pressed a reverent kiss to her tender flesh, “on my honor.”

He opened his mouth and she felt the slide of his fangs against her skin as they extended. He shifted his mouth a fraction and punctured her flesh.

She hissed at the sting, but kept still. It wasn’t as bad as she had feared. Pain, certainly, but surmountable. His mouth sealed around where he had bitten and he took the first pull of her blood. The sting transformed into a luxurious warmth that had her eyelids fluttering in surprised pleasure, her breath coming in shallow pants.

He slid his free arm around her waist, bringing her body against his and she drowsily watched the rapture on his face, dizzy from the bliss the gentle suction was giving her. His eyes opened and met hers and she felt a throb of need so acute she moaned aloud, greedy and clutching at him. He groaned in response, the sound reverberating against her wrist and making her gasp.

He slowed, the suction tapering off until she felt the swirl of his tongue around the small wounds he had made. He finished with another worshipful kiss before releasing her, giving her wrist back to her with a gentle press of his hand and stepping away. She looked down, amazed to see no bruising or even scarring. Her flesh was pale, unmolested, as if his bite had never happened.

It left her with more questions than answers but when she looked up to voice them, the words died in her throat. He was staring at her hard, his face placid but with bright, unearthly longing in his dilated eyes. He brought a hand up to her face, ghosting his thumb across her cheek before dropping his hand, giving her a shallow bow, and leaving the room.

She stared after him, clutching her wrist to her chest, pressing her thumb to the pulse that still beat as strong as ever under her skin.


	5. The Chapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanctuary is disturbed in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks to Mareyshelley

A loud crash woke Belle from her sound sleep, ripping her from swirling dreams. She blinked in the darkness, confused for a moment before another crash sounded. A warning tingle spread up her spine but she slipped out of bed, groping for the candle on her bedside table and lighting it. The brightness made her squint but she pushed forward, leaving her room as quietly as she could and making her way downstairs.

The rest of the house seemed to lay still but a quick flash of light caught the corner of Belle’s eye and she turned towards it, gripping the banister hard in her free hand as her body tensed. The flash materialized into the flame of a second candle, the shape of a maid following after it, and Belle sighed in relief.

“Miss!” The maid caught sight of her and hurried over. “What are you doing out of bed? ‘Tisn’t safe!”

Belle frowned.

“I would ask you the same. Did you not hear the noise?”

The maid looked over her shoulder, then back to Belle, eyes worried. 

“It’s nothing, Miss. Only…”

“Only what?”

Sighing, the maid stepped closer. 

“The Master is…out of sorts tonight, Miss.” She darted another worried look over her shoulder. “Overindulgence. I shouldn’t trouble him if I were you. Begging your pardon,” she said with a quick curtsy.

Belle pulled back. Overindulgence? Her mind immediately went to drink but her interaction with Mr. Gold in the rose salon swam to the front of her mind, clashing with her instinct.

“If it is not safe for me, then surely it is even less so for you?” Belle gave the maid a reassuring smile. “I shall be fine.”

The maid shook her head.

“No, Miss. I fear you won’t. Not…not when the Master is like this.” 

She was likely correct; seeking out Mr. Gold in whatever state he was in that made his staff terrified was a poor choice, but Belle was curious, and when had she ever let her curiosity go unsatisfied?

“Where is he?”

The maid gave her a searching look, then sighed, pointing to an archway underneath the stairs.

“The Master is in his private study.” She lowered her arm. “Please, Miss. Have caution.”

* * *

Belle passed through the archway and down a short hall that led to a flight of stone steps that looked to be hewn from the grand estate’s foundation. She took them slowly, bracing a hand on the wall to support herself as she descended, her other still gripping the candle holder. The small flame guttered as she moved, threatening to extinguish. 

The air grew colder the deeper she went underground, the stairs gently spiraling, ending at a small landing before a wooden door. It was twin to the entrance of the house, absent the grimacing gargoyle head. The door was no less foreboding for that lack and Belle peered at it warily. She took a tentative step forward, her hand raised, but another loud bang made her jump, falling back and nearly tripping over the bottom step. The air stilled, silence reigning after the violent noise fell and curiosity pulled her forward.

Nothing seemed to move on the other side of the thick door, yet she knew her host was in there. She had been told as much. What else could make such noise but another being? And yet, _ how _ was he making such noise? She frowned, concerned, and reached out, placing her free hand gently against the wood and leaning in. 

“Everard?” She curled her hand, knocking lightly. 

Her name was rasped in return, somewhere between a growl and desperate moan, followed by a slam against the door hard enough to splinter the wood. Belle jerked back with a shriek, heart leaping into her throat. An unholy growl met her ears, the sound inhuman. The ferality of it struck deep into her core, terrifying and arousing her in equal, disturbing measures and she pressed a hand to her throat.

The growl took sentience and she could make out a few words, repeated over and over. She moved closer, straining her ears to make out the phrase.

“Everard, what is it? Please, can I help?”

Another low moan, then a frantic clawing began at the door, his moans turning to howls. She heard rage in the sound and backed a few steps away.

_Belle—GO!” _

She gasped, turning, and bolted up the stairs. The candle’s weak flame sputtered and died, plunging her into darkness. She discarded the candle holder as she scrambled up the narrow stone steps, uncaring of anything but escaping and refusing to stop until she had reached her room.

* * *

The sun rose on her fitful sleep, waking her as the first rays of dawn crossed her eyelids. Her attention immediately landed on the door to her chamber.

Every precaution she had taken overnight still held, the vanity chair lodged under the doorknob acting as her tilted sentry, barring entrance. Belle knew it was a paltry defense should something truly want to get to her in the night and waking unharmed to the bright new light of day left her confused. And irritated.

Throwing off the covers, she moved to the basin at the vanity and began her morning ablutions. A walk would clear her head, and there was plenty she had yet to see on the estate’s land. Immersing herself in nature would center and fortify her for the confrontation she anticipated.

She traversed the manicured grounds until the lawn met untamed forest. A narrow, overgrown path caught her attention and she eagerly followed as it led her deeper into the woods, enjoying the early morning light as it filtered through the trees, dotting her pale gown with flashes of golden yellow. At the end of the path was a small stone edifice covered in brilliant green ivy. Belle peered at it, soon realizing it to be a chapel, and she breathed in wonder, moving closer and testing the small wooden door. It opened with little pressure, the hinges moving smoothly, and Belle ducked inside.

She gasped in delight as she took in the space. Four stone pillars extended up to arches that connected, supporting the tiny structure. Each pillar was carved with intricate designs both religious and decorative. A small wooden bench sat in the center of the space, facing the altar adorned with a simple cross in front of a rough-hewn stained glass window. Light filtered through and slanted colors across the ground.

Belle moved forward, running a hand along one of the pillars as she passed it before sitting on the bench. Her shoulders relaxed, the peace of the chapel settling over her. She closed her eyes, the faint song of birds making its way in as she sat in contemplative silence.

Her thoughts turned to her host, sliding quickly down the path carved in her mind over the past few days. A prayer for patience, for courage, moved past her lips as her confusion and ire at him rose. She opened her eyes. Her gaze landed on the little cross, and she sighed deeply.

The atmosphere shifted ever so slightly, alerting her that she was no longer alone; the object of her musings had found her. The door clicked shut, and the sound of a shuffling step echoed in the space.

“I hadn’t realized you were…pious.”

He said the word as if it tasted foul. She frowned, straightening her spine.

“One needn’t adhere to strict piety to enjoy the sanctuary of a holy place.”

He snorted. “Indeed.”

Belle ground her teeth, trying to tamp down on her irritation. She wasn’t entirely successful. Turning on the bench, she glared at him where he leaned with apparent insouciance against a nearby pillar. 

“Why are you here?”

An eyebrow arched.

“This chapel belongs to me.”

And everything in it, as well; Belle didn’t miss the implication.

“I meant why did you come after me?”

He tilted his head, regarding her as if she were a curiosity.

“And what makes you think I did that?”

Belle shook her head with a scoff. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, then leveled a scowl at him. “_ You _ are ridiculous.”

He pursed his lips, blinking slowly at her, but was otherwise silent.

“You searched for me,” she declared. “And for what? To continue whatever game it is that you play?” She turned back to the cross. “I tire of it.”

Footsteps as he moved closer to her, and then, “I play no game, Miss French.”

She barked a laugh, the unladylike sound echoing around them.

“Then what would you call it? For, to me, it is indeed a game you play, and one I did not agree to take part in, nor received the rules for.”

The backs of cold fingers stroked gently down the side of her neck. She slapped his hand away and stood, whirling on him with the bench between them. He was surprised, she saw it in his eyes, but he quickly recovered and scowled at her.

“Biting the hand that feeds you?” he growled, skirting the bench. He loomed over her, pushing into her personal space. “Unwise, my dear.”

She held her ground, pushing back until the front of her body was near flush with his. His pupils dilated even as his thunderous expression held. She scanned his face, then stared directly into his eyes, her puzzlement overtaking her vexation. 

“You are solicitous and kind, then absent yourself for days. Or you try to frighten me, and often succeed. You accept my kiss, my blood—for whatever purpose—and yet when I seek to help you in an hour of need, you rebuke and shun me.” 

She shook her head with a frustrated sigh, keeping his gaze and daring to place her hands on his chest. Her fingers slid into the snowy folds of his cravat, the silk luxuriously smooth, his body still as stone underneath.

“Everard…why?”

He brought his hands up, clasping hers, his skin once again cool. She dropped her eyes to his mouth, his firm lips slightly parted. With a little moan, she lifted herself, sliding her arms around his neck and pressing her mouth to his. It was artless and clumsy, but she couldn’t bring herself to care, and used her small bit of momentum to press him back against a nearby pillar. He grunted as his back made contact with the stone, and his hands fell to her waist, spanning her and keeping her tight against him as he let her ravish his mouth.

Everard was so placid in her arms, and she nipped at him, whining. She felt a shudder run through his body and knew he struggled to keep himself in check. She didn’t want that, didn’t want him in control. She wanted him wild, unguarded, unbound so that she might see a glimpse inside of him, find some path to understanding through their intimacy.

An ache started between her thighs, fueled by frustration as he kept mastery over himself, refusing to return her fervor. She slid her hands back down, grasping at the lapels of his coat, letting out a little growl as she tried to pull him into her. Tearing his mouth from hers, he pushed her back, holding her tight enough to prevent her from clinging to him again.

A second later, he released her, making haste towards the chapel’s entrance. Belle’s head spun at the abruptness of his movements, and as she turned to call out to him, her words met empty air. She hurried to the door, trying to see a glimpse of him, but only forest and the path greeted her.

* * *

Livid by the time she reached the house, Belle stormed inside, catching the attention of another maid.

“Where is he?” she snapped, her patience all but evaporated.

The maid pointed towards the archway that led to Everard’s den, and Belle tersely thanked the woman. She turned and barreled towards the narrow stairs, taking them as swiftly as she dared, halting once she reached the splintered door.

It looked worse than when she had run the previous night. Fissured in such a way that she could see flickers of light through the cracks. The door also happened to be open.

Belle’s eyes widened. It appeared Everard had been too hasty in his retreat to close the door behind him when he reached his den. It was to her benefit, but a niggle of guilt gave her pause. This was his private sanctuary. She hadn’t been barred from it, but neither had she been offered welcome.

Squaring her shoulders, Belle shook off the pang of conscience and pushed the door the rest of the way open, stepping through and shutting it behind her. She tried to ignore the ambivalent stare of her host as she entered, knowing his gaze would only reflect her clashing feelings in the moment.

When she finally gathered enough courage to look up at him after what felt like an eternity, she found him staring hard at her, haughty fury threatening to burn her alive. 

“You have quite the bravery to invade this space,” he snapped, his casual posture at the fireplace belied by his glare. Lit wall sconces cast low light around them, the shadows seeming to caress his form.

Belle crossed her arms, shielding herself, and once again squared her shoulders. “And you have quite the nerve to kiss me—in a _ church _ no less—and then run off like a scared deer.” 

He kept glaring as he moved from the fireplace to a table set with decanter and glasses, pouring himself a measure of brandy. He sipped it slowly, carefully, before setting the glass down and strolling up to Belle, his unhurried stride clashing fiercely with his palpable anger. It stoked her own, and she wondered what on earth he had to be so upset about. For her own part, it wasn’t entirely fury that drove her to follow him, giving in to the demand to finally figure him out, once and for all and by any means necessary. A great deal was desire, deep and aching; all for him, this inscrutable man she had come to want in such a short time.

His ire was cold, seemingly calculated, but the howling desperation of the night before stayed with her. It was as if he had been begging rather than commanding. What had been the cause? Had it something to do with the maid’s statement that Everard had _ overindulged? _She shoved the irrelevant curiosity to the back of her mind and focused on the present moment.

He leaned in when he reached her, the brandy fumes tickling her nose unpleasantly as he spoke and pointed to the fractured door.

“_Go._”

She refused to budge, instead slowly crossing her arms over her chest and glaring back at him. She licked her lips and raised her chin.

He snarled at her, frustration evident at her lack of obeisance, and whirled around, stalking toward a large desk set in front of a wall of full bookshelves. Stopping at a shelf, he braced his hands against it, gripping the wood hard enough that Belle could hear it crack.

“Everard,” Belle began, “I only wish to understand why—” 

“Understand?” He whipped around, his features contorted in rage, but his voice icy. “You only seek to understand?” He turned, reaching towards a bookshelf and yanking out a worn journal. He crossed the room in a few ground-eating strides, reaching her faster than she could back away. 

“Then read,” he spat, shoving the journal into her hands, “and _ understand _ what you have let taste you.”

He prowled back to the fire, snatching his glass and tossing the rest of the brandy back as his other hand gripped the marble mantle. Belle watched him for a moment before her eyes fell to the small tome in her hands. It fell open, the pages hand-bound, held together by ancient-looking twine. Two phrases done in black-brown ink scrawled across the first page, a de facto title.

_Oft him anhaga, grynsmið, déaþgan blðdþigen mann ond lædend deorcnes. _

_ Se nihtbúend blód lædend gehror ond feorhdeaÞ. _

Crude drawings accompanied the text, violent and strange, with fanged beings of various sizes bent over prone figures, both human and animal. One word kept repeating in the first several pages—_ blðd _—and Belle frowned each time she saw it. The word was obviously a crucial one, but what did it mean?

She looked up at Everard and started to find him staring at her, his expression dark. A tingle of warning crept around her heart and she tried to swallow it down, dropping her gaze back to the book. She flipped through a few more pages, the words beginning to resemble English, and stopped as she came to a poem towards the end.

The dark symbolism unfurled, the words sinking in like the final bits of a complicated puzzle. She closed the book slowly, raising wide eyes to him, but he remained silent, choosing only to glare back at her. She swallowed and his eyes caught the motion, the hand gripping the mantle curling slowly into a claw. He pushed away from the fireplace and began walking towards her.

No, not walking. _ Prowling. _ She recognized the particular glide in his movements; each one of his predatory senses was entirely focused on her. He stopped several inches in front of her, his dilated pupils ringed with glowing irises. His gaze slid to her décolletage, the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed seeming to mesmerize him.

If he was… then that meant… 

_ Oh, god. _

Her heart beat a fierce staccato in her chest, an instinct urging her to flee, but she kept her ground. Everard raised a hand and gently drew the back of one cold finger down the side of her neck where her pulse throbbed. Belle gasped and took a step back.

“Unwise to try and flee now, my dear,” he purred, his gaze following her. “You’ve been caught. Best to give in.”

He smiled evilly, triumphantly, at her and something in her mind snapped under the weight of unreleased frustration. She crossed the bit of space between them, shoving herself close enough to brush his nose with hers, and stared hard into his eyes. Fear clawed at her but she shoved it back, reaching up and jerking the loose, curling tumble of her hair away from one side of her neck.

“I did not jest when I said I grow tired of your games, Everard.” She tilted her head to the side, exposing the pale column of her throat. He sucked in a breath on a hiss. 

“If you desire to kill me, then just do it.” 

She met his eyes with a defiant glare. 

“_Vampire _.”

He seized her with a growl, one arm a band of steel around her waist, one hand gripping the back of her neck brutally. She yelped but willed herself not to struggle in the tightness of his grip. She closed her eyes, panic beginning to well as she waited for agony and damned herself for her choice.

But there was no pain. Nothing but the firm grip on her body and cold lips that barely brushed her skin. After a long moment, Everard softened his grip, pressing a gentle, reverent kiss to her pulse where it still throbbed wildly under her skin.

“No,” he whispered. “I would not see you harmed for any reason.”

Belle frowned, utterly bewildered, and squirmed out of his hold. He let her go easily.

She moved away until her back hit the splintered door, staring at him in naked confusion, certain she was going mad and said as much.

“No,” he repeated. “You are not mad, Belle.”

“Then, please,” she begged, pressing her eyes shut, “_please _ cease toying with me.” She opened them. “Tell me why. _ Why _ you disposed of a man sent to harm me when you could have been rid of me easily.” Her voice rose in exasperation and she moved forward without realizing. _Why _ you greet me with indifference and leave me not knowing whether to expect your ire or kindness. For God’s sake, Everard, what do you _ want _ from me?”

“_I am owed what was promised! _”

His shout rang through the space, the stone throwing his words back at him until he staggered and leaned against the desk for support.

Belle stilled, his words sending a chill through her blood.

He ran a hand over his face, his expression suddenly beleaguered and weary. She forced herself to stay calm, waiting for him to speak but he merely sat, staring at the hearth. 

“What does that mean?” Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. “What were you _ promised? _”

Everard finally looked at her, his gaze shuttered and face clear of emotion. Her gut twisted.

“No,” she whispered. He stood, taking a step towards her but she recoiled, holding out her hands to fend him off. 

“No.” Anger filled her repeat. “Don’t come near me.” 

She turned and pulled open the heavy door, hurrying from the space in a haze of rage and misery.


End file.
